“Where’s McCall?” he asked harshly.
Rachel was startled by his bluntness. “Sheriff McCall doesn’t live here,” she answered, remembering Daisy’s warning.
“I know that, but you were seen with him.” He said it like an accusation.
Seen with him? Where? When? Rachel followed Daisy’s advice and pursed her lips. “No doubt I was, just as I am seen with you now, on my own front porch. But that was hours ago and he did not arouse these good people from their sleep. The sheriff is not here. Good night, Mr. Holt.” She started to close the door, but Holt blocked it with his foot.
He lowered his head and said more quietly, “He’s got no business here.” It sounded like a threat.
“Nor do you. Good night, Mr. Holt.”
“What’s goin’ on? What do you need the sheriff for? Somebody kick up a fuss at the saloon?” Eustace stumped up the stairs as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
“This is none of your business,” Holt growled.
“Maybe so, but if you’re lookin’ for Sheriff McCall, you should be lookin’ up at Daisy’s. That’s where I saw him headed earlier on. If he ain’t in his own, I’ll bet you find him in a flower bed.” Eustace laughed at his joke, though no one else did.
Rachel closed the door and turned to find every boarder on the stairs staring at her.
“Go back to bed,” she told them. “Whatever it is, it’s none of our business. I’m sure we’ll hear about it in the morning.”
With murmurs and whispers, the guests returned to their rooms, leaving her father alone on the stairs.
“A gentleman would not bring such embarrassment to a lady’s door,” he said in vindication of his earlier argument.
Rachel stared right back. “A gentleman would not have waited for his daughter to answer the door.”
The warm milk did nothing to help Rachel sleep. Too much was happening, too quickly, and it was all a jumble in her mind. Like a tangled skein of wool, she needed to unknot it, bit by bit, until it could be knitted into something that made sense. And like the skein of wool, it was best to untangle the easiest snarls first.
First she supposed, was learning she was not alone in her feelings about her place in life. Her age, as she’d originally feared, had nothing to do with it. Liddy, in her seventies, certainly felt a sense of betrayal for her years of loyalty and hard work. Young Cassie felt the same way as Liddy and had already decided to remain a spinster. Neither’s feelings were particularly surprising, but Daisy Warren’s were.
Like many others in town, Rachel always assumed that the special circumstances surrounding Daisy’s Bouquet allowed a woman to own the property. If Eustace could be believed, Daisy had put up most of the money to build that house. How did Barnabas Holt come to own the bordello and who owned it before he came?
How Daisy knew about Rachel’s own dilemma was another mystery, but one Rachel thought was easily solved. Men talked or, in this case, bragged. The only question was which one, since both were frequent visitors at the big yellow house. Though it was none of her business, it was somehow comforting to know Daisy would approve of Rachel’s choice. Jack Coogan was a fool, but a fool could be managed.
And that made her think of her father. Rachel had heard whispers at the funeral of how her mother could have done better. Did she marry for love or because Papa was a fool who could be managed? If the latter, then Rachel had failed in her management. But no more. The problem of Papa was contained and Rachel would see that it remained so. Soon, she would no longer be responsible for his debt.
The problem remained as to how and when she would announce her plans to mate. Cowardly as it was, she would tell Jack Coogan he must wait for the New Year for her answer. She needed the next few months to prepare herself for the loss of her one freedom.
She would not think of her growing feelings for Challenger McCall. Her wolf growled at that and Rachel growled right back.
“You have no say in this decision, wolf, no matter what the Mate might say. Go back to sleep.”
Which, of course, was not going to happen. Her wolf was awake and more fully alive than it had ever been before. Her transformation tonight had filled her with a sense of freedom and power she would not willingly give up.
“And why would she?” Rachel said aloud.
After the initial shock and adjustment, Rachel had felt the freedom of it, too. Unrestricted and unfettered, she’d leapt and twisted, and gnashed with bared teeth, following instincts as old as time, to protect what was hers. She was strength. She was beauty. She was power. She didn’t feel those things. She was those things. She was wolf. She was wolver.
Nature had decreed that female wolvers could go over the moon without hindrance or permission once a year at the Hunter’s Moon and Nature must have had her reasons, but it was men who decreed they should not run on the other moons. Not all men. Rachel knew this because she’d overheard visitors talk. Some packs encouraged their women to go over the moon each month with their Alpha’s power and blessing. So, why not the men of Gold Gulch?
Rachel knew the answer before she finished asking the question.
She was power. She was wolf. She was wolver.
It was the awakening of her wolf that made her speak her thoughts to Challenger McCall, not the whiskey. It was her wolf who gave her the support she needed to stand up to her father as she should have done years ago. It was her wolf who recognized the call for help and gave her the courage to follow the dog. It was her wolf who fought by his side and shared with Rachel the exhilaration of being who she was born to be.
Some men would not want their women to feel that kind of power and some of those men lived in Gold Gulch.
The Hunter’s moon was a week away. What then, gave her the power to shift tonight? She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the scene as it happened, the flash of light, the dog… the dog!
No! She was excited, distraught, exhausted by the unaccustomed run, afraid of what she might find on the other side of the rise. It was an optical illusion. It had to be. A dog was a dog was a dog. Rachel tried to envision the animal during the fight, but the only thing she saw was the poor thing lying in the dirt before she heard the silver wolf order her to drop to the ground. Arthur was only a dog when McCall carried him to Daisy’s.
Which left her with the last snarl of her suddenly complicated life. Who was Challenger McCall and why had he come to Gold Gulch? And why, after all these years, had her wolf awakened to call him mate.
She rested her head on her crossed arms at the table and closed her eyes as the excitement that had been pumping through her veins finally subsided and the warm milk achieved its purpose.
She dreamed of running across the golden terrain, both desolate and beautiful, with a silver wolf by her side. The cool night wind ruffled through her thick coat that glistened like polished copper in the moonlight. The sky was black. The stars twinkled like diamonds. The moon was a shining silver ball. In this land that man eschewed for greener pastures, lay a bounty of sustenance for the wolf.
The scent of the earth filled her nostrils with the rich smells of life; shelter and food in abundance; and water aplenty for those who could taste it on their tongue and follow its sweet scent on the breeze. This was a place where they could run free, raise cubs, prosper and grow old in the fullness of time. And the greatest treasure of all was the silver wolf running by her side.
With a mighty show of strength, the silver wolf leapt ahead, twisted and turned in the air to land facing her, forcing her to skid to a stop and meet those beautiful gray eyes that gazed at her with a very human look of lust. There was a sudden flash of light.
“He’s an Alpha,” Rachel said aloud.
“Who’s an alpha?” Bertie asked, hanging her shawl on the peg. “Good gracious, girl. Did you spend the night at the table? Are you sick?”
Rachel lifted her head and blinked in surprise at the bland reality of her kitchen compared to the richness of her dream. She rubbed her eyes and looked down a
t her nightgown topped by her skirt and shawl, and the milk filmed glass in front of her.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she explained, still blinking the sleep from her eyes. “I warmed some milk.”
“I guess it did the job,” Bertie laughed, “You better get a wiggle on or breakfast will be late. I‘ll get the meat started while you get dressed. You sure you’re all right?”
Rachel wasn’t sure, so didn’t answer. Her skein of thoughts was tangled again. “It will only take me a minute to get dressed. Then I’ll go gather the eggs…” her mind filled with the tasks of a day started late. For once, she was glad to have little time to think.
Rachel kept the double bed with the high, carved headboard, the lady’s dresser and the wardrobe that matched. It would be a pleasant change from hanging her few things from pegs on the wall. The guest rooms were equipped with closets, so her father would no longer need it.
Everything else was carried upstairs, including most of the furnishings in her room. It was past time to put away childish things. These rooms were hers now, and she was determined to leave her mark before her future mate had time to form an opinion.
Eustace, bless his scavenging heart, had disappeared that morning, once her plans were announced. The women thought he was evading the prospect of a morning spent in climbing stairs and while Bertie had plenty to say, no one really blamed him. He’d returned a half hour later with four almost full gallons of paint; two pale green and two pale yellow, both perfect to brighten the dark and dingy rooms.
“Daisy had it left over from last spring when the Doves redid their rooms.”
Liddy was scandalized at the thought of using paint from a house of ill repute. “What will your father think?” she asked.
“My father’s thoughts are no longer my concern,” Rachel told her. It was the only thing she’d said about the move.
Practical Bertie wasn’t going to let the paints origins stand in Rachel’s way. She pried open the lid of one can and peered inside, then folded her hands, closed her eyes and tilted her chin heavenward.
“Lord above,” she prayed, “In spite of where it came from, this paint looks pure, but if its use be sinful, lay this green sin at Eustace’s feet. He’s the one that brought it. And if he has no room on his already blackened soul, lay it on Liddy, hers is lily white and could use a bit of color. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”
“See that? Everybody dumps it on the omega,” Eustace complained.
“Or on the penniless widow,” Liddy giggled and then she whispered, “It is a little exciting, don’t you think? I’ve often wondered what that house was like inside.”
“Wouldn’t know. These boxes going upstairs?” Eustace asked and made a face when the women laughed.
“I’ve wondered the same,” Rachel admitted. In her thirty-two years, she’d only seen the kitchen, once.
Now, Bertie had gone home for lunch and Liddy was having her meal with a friend, both having spent the morning helping Rachel move Papa’s things upstairs. It was the perfect time to complete her plans to make these rooms truly hers.
Rachel was, therefore, covered from neck to ankle in one of her father’s old nightshirts, with a rag wrapped around her head and a paintbrush in her hand. Balanced precariously on the rickety ladder Eustace had carried in from the shed, she was finishing her second wall while humming a tune about a bird in a gilded cage.
“Forgive my interruption, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone at the front…”
“Oh!”
The ladder tilted, the paintbrush flew and Rachel landed with all the grace of a rock into the arms of John Washington. In her panic and to keep herself from landing in an unladylike heap on the the ground, she wrapped her arms about his neck, but she needn’t have worried. The handsome schoolteacher was as strong as she suspected and he held her without effort. He turned to the door, cradling her in his arms.
“I think I found her,” he laughed.
“Apparently,” Challenger McCall said from the doorway. He didn’t smile.
“I startled her,” Washington explained.
“I fell,” Rachel said hastily.
“Apparently,” McCall said again. He rolled his tongue over the inside of his cheek. “Are you hurt?” he asked Rachel.
“Oh, no, I…”
“Good. Then put her down,” McCall said to him and walked away muttering something about goddamned schoolteachers.
Washington set her on her feet. “Don’t fall again,” he said with laughter in his eyes, “Next time, I’m afraid I’ll have to let you break a leg.” He looked around the corner into the kitchen. “Gold Gulch needs him.” He looked back at Rachel and waggled his finger back and forth between her and where McCall had gone. “Is there something between…?”
“No,” she answered sharply.
“Ah.” He nodded and smiled as if she’d said something amusing and then he looked around the half painted room. “Are you doing this all on your own?”
“Without anyone to guide me, you mean?” As soon as she said it, she winced. There was no excuse for rudeness. She was surprised when he laughed.
“Oh, I think you’re quite capable of painting. It’s your ladder skills I worry about. How about you come out and get me checked in and I’ll come down and help you finish.”
“Heavens no!’ I couldn’t ask you to do that. You’re the schoolmaster.” Did someone in his position even know how to paint?
“You didn’t ask. I volunteered, and people are often capable of much more than we assume they are. You, of all people, should be aware of that.”
At his rebuke, Rachel suddenly felt as if she should lower her eyes in deference to this wolver. It wasn’t out of fear, as with the Second. This was something else; another feeling she’d never felt before and didn’t understand. Her wolf, now that she needed its opinion, was strangely silent.
“Thank you, then. If you’ll give me a moment to put myself in order, I’ll be right out.”
John Washington spent no more than a few minutes in his room before he came back down the stairs collarless, in a blue cambric work shirt and a pair of spotted canvas trousers. He held out his arms for Rachel’s inspection. At her surprised look, he laughed.
“Who do you think painted the schoolhouse?”
“I saw that paint job,” McCall laughed, coming through the front door in the blue jeans he wore that first day and a faded blue tee shirt that clung to every muscle in his chest and exposed his powerful arms. “Maybe you should let a real man show you how it’s done.”
“Your challenge is accepted, sir,” Washington said in a formal tone, and then sounded like a tourist when he said, “Bring it on, bro.”
“Wait a minute,” Rachel called to them as they left her standing in the front hall, fussing over the dog that had arrived with McCall. It was bandaged and limping, but wagged its tail happily when it saw her. “What about me?”
Both men stopped and looked at each other.
“The nightshirt was kind of cute,” Washington said to McCall. He got a snarl in response which made him laugh.
The snarling sheriff raised his finger to Rachel. “No ladders,” he insisted.
In the end, it didn’t matter. Rachel barely made it through two walls before their mischief and harassment drove her crazy. When they declared a tie in their wall war and insisted they paint the second room to settle the challenge, she threw up her hands and left them to it. She closed the door on their banter and went to work serving the Victorian Luncheon which was fully booked, a rarity on a Monday, and helped Bertie and Liddy prepare for the five o’clock Tea.
When Josephus Kincaid failed to show up for his luncheon performance, it was Liddy who saved the day. She was hesitant at first, but once she settled into her role, she seemed to enjoy it and was willing to do it again for Tea. With a ruffled apron she’d worn at the Sweet Shop over her widow’s weeds, she made the perfect ‘housekeeper’ and regaled the guests with stories of Sir and Madam, while explaining the Victorian ob
session with complicated dining service and cuisine. Rachel prayed for a miracle of money enough to pay Liddy full wages for her service.
Her prayer was answered in the form of young Billy Smith, the saloonkeeper’s son who was making a delivery for his father. Rachel was at the front desk going over the numbers for that week’s bookings when young Billy arrived with a heavy wooden box.
“What have you got there, Billy?” she asked, half expecting another litter of kittens from the cat they kept at the saloon. The cat had looser morals than the girls in Daisy’s Bouquet.
“Mr. Josephus Kincaid’s weekly order,” he told her with a proud grin as he handed her the receipt. “He always tips me a dollar if I bring it on time.”
Papa chose to go over the books each Monday because Mondays were slow and the expense reports for the bank were due each Tuesday. Those reports were the only things Papa took care of at the hotel. He copied each of Rachel’s entries in his own neat hand, insisted that as the proprietor, his name should be on the form.
“Don’t worry about the money. That’s my job,” he would insist when Rachel would question his borrowing cash from the register and now she knew why. Once again, Rachel marveled at her own stupidity at allowing this to go on for so long.
She checked the box full of liquor and seethed inside while smiling sweetly at the boy.
“Thank you, Billy. Mr. Josephus Kincaid requests that you tell your father all future deliveries should be billed to the bank where Mr. Slocum can transfer the amount from Mr. Kincaid’s personal account.”
As her father had before her, she paid the bill from the register, but unlike her father, Rachel replaced the money with a receipt along with her instructions to William Smith for the payment of future purchases. Billy’s tip came from her pocket.
The she-wolf was unexpectedly excited about Rachel’s decision, and in celebration of this solidarity, Rachel swiped two bottles of whiskey to hide away, along with a bottle of sherry for the ladies. With a smile on her face and a spring in her step, she headed back to the kitchen.
Wolver's Gold (The Wolvers) Page 15